


transatlantic

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (is dusted), Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But he still loves her so fuck u pepperony haters, Comfort/Angst, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Stephen Strange, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Other, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts Dies, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Stephen Strange, References to Depression, References to Suicide, Stephen Strange feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 18:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18212057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: The war against Thanos is over, and the Avengers lost; and with it, the six-year war inside Tony's head that he never could recover from.Tony lost everything: his kid, his friends, his love, and his drive to fight. That is, everything and everybody except for Stephen Strange.(or: I really just wanted to explore Tony's shattered internal dialogue after the events of Infinity War. )





	transatlantic

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and please enjoy!

His eyes are blue, but not in the way most people’s are— they’re almost gray, like the Atlantic during winter. I stare into them without any remorse, and I find myself lost in their depths each and every time.

Soon enough I see his cheeks start to crinkle, like he’s laughing at me. 

“What?” I whisper. 

“Nothin’,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet, is all.”

“Why’s that?”

“No reason.“ His eyes smile again. I don’t think I’ve seen anything more beautiful.

But soon he pulls back, and flops back on the bed, on top of our white comforter, in the holy glow of New York City. 

“Tony Stark,” he mumbles, staring up at the ceiling. I twist around, facing him— he’s not looking. 

“Hm?”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

I’ve only felt this once before, this burning love, I realize. She’s long gone now. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I whisper.

I hear a huff of laughter. “You’ve still got to work on your modesty.”

It’s just a ruse. He knows I love him too. I love him more than I’ve loved anything in the world— except for her.

I stand up, the cold from the stone seeping into my bare feet. “I’m getting a drink,” I tell him, pulling on my coat. “You want?” He sits up.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he murmurs. I give him a quick nod and then step out of the room. 

The hallway is dark and cold. The marble floors are streamlined and pristine, and reflect the lights of the city out of the window. I breath out once, hating the shakiness. Why is it shaky? Why am I always shaky?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I have to look twice. I don’t look like myself. I look like I’m dying. My eyes are bloodshot, and sunken. 

I look like I’ve lived a thousand lives. 

I rub my face and then keep on moving— that’s what I do, I just keep on moving. It’s what I’ve always done.

I feel numb as I pour us the drinks, and I’m not entirely sure why. I love him and I know he loves me, yet something inside me is still scared. Still sad. God, I feel like I’m always sad.

I think of his face and I force myself to smile. Because when I’m with him I’m happy; I know that much is true. 

“Are you okay?” Comes Stephen’s voice, gentle. He‘s standing in the hallway. I look up.

“Yep,” I say. “Perfect.” I take our two glasses and hand one to him. It’s dark in this room, and I wonder why I haven’t turned on the lights. 

“Are you sure?”

I look at him once and then nod. He only stares at me.

“I don’t believe you,” he says finally, taking the glass of bourbon, on ice. He takes one long drink.

“Yeah, well,” I murmur. “What can you do?”

“I can ask you what’s wrong.”

“But you know what’s wrong, right? You know.” I down the bourbon. It only burns for a moment.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what, Stephen?” I whisper, pouring more spirit into my glass. “What do you want me to say? That I feel like I’m dying, from the inside, out? That every time I think about it, another piece of me dies?” I take a shaky breath, resting my hands on the cold countertops. I always feel cold. “It’s nothing new, honey.”

He doesn’t speak for a while, and neither of us moves. I can hear the wind whistling in and out of my lungs.

“Think about what?” he asks, slowly. 

Anxiety bubbles inside me until I feel it at my throat. I feel like crying but I can’t— I can’t ever cry. 

“You know what,” I mutter. I have to avert my eyes, fixing my stare on the marble countertop below my hands. My shoulders are starting to burn with the weight I’m leaning on them. 

“I want to hear you say it,” Stephen repeats. “Just once.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, shifting to down another glass. The dull buzz is nice.

“Tony, the snap—“

“Don’t,” I interrupt, voice dangerously low.

He’s silent, and the look on his face breaks my heart. Someone that beautiful doesn’t deserve to feel that sad.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I’m sorry I pushed it.”

Exhaustion seeps into my bones.

“It’s not your fault,” I murmur. “It’s mine. I should be okay. Fuck, Stephen, I should— I should—“ I trail off, and I feel my breaths grow shallower. “I should be better by now.”

“I love you, Tony,” he whispers. It’s shaking.

I draw in a shuddering breath. “I know,” I breath. “I know. I love you, too.”

“You know, there are ways to get better,” he tells me. His voice is still sad. I hate sadness. I hate it so much.

I don’t respond.

“You can see a therapist again,” he murmurs. “You used to, right? We can take you to an actual doctor... get you on something...”

“Pepper used to tell me that, too,” I say. “After Sokovia.” The words feel surprisingly foreign on my tongue because it feels like the events I speak of were in a different life. Before my world fell apart.

“Did you?”

“No. Probably should’ve.” 

“Yeah, probably.”

“Tony...” Stephen trails off, setting his glass down. “Tony, come back to bed.” He sounds as if he is about to ask something but never does. 

“I think I’m gonna stay out here for a little while,” I tell him. My voice sounds raw.

“Aren’t you tired?”

I am so tired. But he doesn’t even know.

“Kind of,” I lie. I think he buys it.

I feel like I’m living a lie. Living in a distraction, doing anything and everything to keep my mind free of the memories, free of the anxiety that comes with them, and the darkness that comes after. The lies and distractions grow on tendrils of thorns, that wrap around my rib cage, that tighten with every breath. I think it might kill me.

“Do you want to come back to bed?” he repeats. He looks concerned, though. 

Instead, I just smile tiredly and tell him I’ll be there soon. He doesn’t move, and I set my glass down and walk towards the big window. My eyes are fixed now on the horizon, twinkling with the burning of a million lights beneath a pitch-black sky. I stare into it; sometimes I think I want the darkness to swallow me up entirely.

“Tony, I know it’s hard right now,” Stephen says, voice hardly above a whisper. “I know you don’t understand what’s going on... I know you miss her, and everyone we lost, and your brain is trying to find a way to— to compensate—“

“Stop talking,” I mutter, shutting my eyes. 

“No, baby, you need to hear this.”

“Strange, I know what’s going on,” I whisper. “I know. I understand.”

“Is that right,” he murmurs. 

I nod, swallowing thickly. “I’ve read the papers about post-traumatic stress. I’ve read the ones on unconscious selective memory, on depression and insomnia— baby, I’ve read them all. I know the science of what’s in here...” I turn around, pointing to my forehead. 

He doesn’t respond, and his eyes look hurt.

“I understand the psychology, I just can’t... I can’t do anything,” I breathe. “Stephen, I can’t. I’m a... hostage,” I say, and my voice sounds detached, “to my own brain.”

“I know,” came the completely broken response. 

“What am I gonna do?” my voice hikes up a notch, and the words catch in my throat. “Baby, what am I gonna do? What are we gonna do?”

There’s a growing hole in my chest, tearing at me, filled with uncertainty and helplessness. It’s making it hard to breathe. 

“Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air...but only for one second without hope.”

It’s a quote I remember hearing, so long ago it feels like lifetimes. But something in the memory strikes a chord in me and something inside just snaps. Like a rubber band that’s been stretched too tight.

I fall back against the window. If the glass decided to shatter and break, and I fall through and down sixty floors to the cold concrete below, I don’t think I’d mind. I slide down until I’m sitting, elbows resting on my knees and hands in front of my face.

I’m not crying, though. There’s a lump in my throat, and a stinging in my eyes, and a twisting pit in my stomach, but I’m not crying. 

I’m thinking this might be worse.

I watch with unfocused eyes as he steps forward, and then suddenly there’s a hand on my arm, heavy and warm and strong. 

“You’re gonna make it out, Stark,” Stephen says softly.

I turn my head, catching those steel eyes once more. Again I’m filled with love, warm and gentle, but something in the feeling is almost lonely. Why am I lonely?

I know why, but I try not to think about it. 

It doesn’t work. Her eyes flash again in my mind, and it breaks my heart when I realize I don’t remember the color anymore. I know they were green, but the shade has escaped me.

“I’m sorry,” I croak.

“Why?”

I blink. I don’t know. So instead I stand up, wringing out my hands like maybe that will help get rid of this hopeless feeling. I don’t think it works, and it feels like my chest is closing in— the tendrils are tightening. 

But the searing panic I’m expecting doesn’t come. It’s just dull, and throbbing, and deafening. 

“Tony, come to bed,” he says. I want to shake my head no, but instead, my shoulders drop. I’m too tired to fight.

I follow him back through the hall, watching as the reflections move on the marble tile beneath my feet. My breath catches in my throat, and I step back. Stephen turns around. 

“I’m not tired,” I say. My voice sounds strange in my throat. “I’m not—“

“Okay. Okay, listen, that’s fine.”

My hands itch to go down to my lab, to tinker with something or other down there, because it’s what I always used to do when I was nervous. I have to remind myself that there’s nothing for me there anymore. Not now, at least. 

Everything down there will remind you of what you lost.

I scoff. No, everything reminds you of what you lost. 

“I can’t lose touch,” I mutter, staring at my hands.

“You’re okay.”

“I’m already losing touch,” I tell him. I feel like the hallway is closing in. 

“You’re not. You’re fine.”

“I know.” I swallow. I don’t believe it, but I say it anyways. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“That’s right.”

I try not to think of them, but I do. I’m being beaten, all over again, but this time it’s by the thoughts inside. The memories. 

Her eyes are green, like dark gray sea foam, I remember. God, I would do anything to see her face again. She was my world.

I haven’t cried since the day it all happened. I shut myself down that evening in November and refused to power back on.

I think of Peter Parker, and the potential, the great life that could’ve been lived. He’s forever immortalized, but only in my head.

“I’m gonna be okay,” I whisper, almost as if it’s a warning to Stephen because I can already feel it all splintering. “Promise.”

“Tony?”

I can’t respond; the lump in my throat has swelled. I know it’s not pretty when I go down, but I realize now that there’s nothing I can do. 

I turn, wiping my eyes with my upper arm, and find myself walking away. Stephen’s saying something and following me, but I just walk faster.

Soon I’m in the bathroom, the big one with the stone floor and a large mirror. The coldness of the tiles seeps through my socks and into my bones.

Stephen’s saying something, and twisting the handle, but I had remembered to lock it. It’s for the better that he can’t get in.

Because I know I love him, but I think I miss somebody else more, and he doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve me. I’m the man who failed the avengers— who failed the world I was supposed to protect.

I look in the mirror and realize again, with a dull shock, that I don’t recognize myself. I look one foot in the grave. 

I figure I might as well be. I splash water on my face, trying to calm my nerves, but it just feels uncomfortable. Stephen’s still knocking, and I finally listen to his words.

“Tony, answer me,” he’s saying, and I blink when I hear fear. “Please answer me. God, just open the door, Tony.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, and his movements seem to freeze. 

“What was that?”

“I can’t,” I repeat, louder.

“Why not?”

“Please go,” I tell him, trembling. “I just need a minute.”

“That’s all fine,” he says. “But you don’t have to do that alone.”

“You— you don’t even—“

“Please, Tony,” he says. “Just let me in.”

My hands are shaking. My heartbeat races, and I try to breathe deeply to slow it down, but I’m not sure it works. 

I take a trembling breath and twist the handle, lock popping out and door opening towards me swiftly. I step forward and fall into his arms. I feel him tense for a moment, but then relax and wrap his arms around me, too. I breathe in the smell of his shirt, of him, and then it hits me— I really do love him. Maybe just as much as I loved Pepper Potts. 

I take a shuddering inhale again but, instead, the exhale is replaced with a sudden, broken sob, muffled by his sweatshirt.

I want to feel better, I realize. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be afraid of my past, and of what I might remember; held hostage by something so far out of my reach. 

I want to get better.

I feel like I’m being torn apart, from the inside out. It’s a kind of sharp, thundering pain I’ve only felt twice in my life. Both felt like lifetimes ago. 

The most recent was Peter Parker’s death, but I’m sure now that it was a symbol of everything else that went wrong. He was a symbol of my internal six-year war with Thanos, inside of my head, that crippled me beyond belief, that I thought I had won. He was a symbol of all the others I saw die, and all the others who died back on Earth. He was a symbol of the war I lost. 

I was grieving for Pepper, then, too. Not when I found out she was missing, but when Peter Parker turned into ash.

“I lost so much,” I whisper, between silent, choking sobs. He just rubs my back. “I loved so much, and I lost so much.”

“I know,” he murmurs.

I don’t know how long he stands there with me, but it feels like lifetimes. I feel only him, and only the drumming pain that wasn’t quite physical, but wasn’t completely psychological— it was just there. 

After a while, I lift my head up. There’s a damp mark on his shirt, where my cheek was. I gaze down the hallway, at the big window again, and for a second I’m sure I see Pepper’s shadow. I blink, and it’s gone.

But the feeling lingers, of warmth and security, and I realize then, suddenly and unmistakably, that a part of her still lives on inside me. A part of her world, her personality. Her love for life.

“I don’t want to die,” I say, voice breaking. I close my eyes.

“I know,” he murmurs. “It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” I whisper, head falling back down onto his chest. I can hear his heartbeat from here, and listen to his breathing, and it’s a rhythm that I can follow. I’m pretty sure I’m crying again, but it’s silent.

My father’s voice echoes in my head, from a time so long ago it feels like centuries. 

”Stark men are made of steel.”

I turn my emotions off in the public’s eye— but this isn’t the public. There’s a facade that I hold up, of titanium and steel, that proves to the world that I’m stronger than ever; that I’m indestructible; that I’m still powerful. It’s a miracle to me that they still believe it. 

But here— this is not the public. This is Stephen, the last one alive on earth who I think really knows me, and who really loves me. Here, I don’t think I could hold my wall up even if I wanted to. 

And he only holds me tighter. It’s true, I can’t stand touch, but he’s different, just like she was different. I don’t try to understand it.

And I know his past, I know who he is and what he will do, and why nothing will ever work out for us, but I don’t care. I’ll be gone by then. 

So for now I just let him hold me, and let myself love him, because I don’t think I could fight love even if I wanted to. I’m just exhausted, mentally and physically— his love is all I have. And maybe I need to be torn apart if I ever want to be stitched back together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, please leave a comment if u liked it!


End file.
